Free Riptide by Michael Prescott Page B

might have done. By now all thoughts of a blond blood-spotted foreigner had been put aside, and press and public clamored for conviction of the Algerian rogue. The jury obliged, sentencing Ali to life imprisonment at a penal institution known by the peculiar nomenclature of Sing Sing.
    Hare received word of the jury’s verdict in July, as he languished in Chicago, planning his next move. He took the development as a favorable omen. Life in his new country had commenced on a most promising note. He could only hope he would be so fortunate in his escapades with other victims.
    For there would be others, of course.

    There always were.

 
 
     
     
    nine
     
    Jennifer pushed her chair away from the table and sat looking at the book.
    Jack the Ripper’s diary. That was crazy. Right?
    “Right,” she murmured.
    But she wasn’t sure.
    If somehow this book was the authentic testament of history’s most infamous serial killer, then she had to assume that the bodies in the cellar were the Ripper’s work, as well.
    Jack the Ripper in California.
    She ran her fingertips over a page of the diary and felt the faint rise of the lettering characteristic of iron-gall, a common 19 th -century ink. The ink wasn’t washed out, as it would be if it had been diluted to simulate aging. There was obvious bronzing—iron-based inks oxidized naturally within eighteen months—and significant feathering; the ink had bled into the paper, a sign of age.
    The writing was smooth and showed none of the “tremble” seen in attempts to disguise one’s handwriting. In some forgeries of old documents, flourishes were added to the handwriting to produce a more antique appearance. She saw no decorative additions here.
    But why would there be artificial flourishes? The diary was no conscious imitation. It was real. It might be the product of the Ripper, or of someone who believed himself to be the Ripper, but it was not written to fool her. It was not left in a tin box underneath a heap of skeletons to play mind games with a psycholinguistic analyst in the 21 st century.
    The vault of bones was a time capsule left by the killer, whoever he was. The diary and the bodies were his message to the future, his mocking announcement that he’d gotten away with it and was forever beyond capture.
    She wondered if he had murdered them here. Had lured them to the house, killed them in its confines. In a back room, perhaps, where their cries would be unheard. This room...
    If she lifted the carpet, would she find bloodstains on the hardwood floor? If she peeled back the wallpaper, would she find scratches grooved by clawing fingernails? If she closed her eyes, would she hear screams...?
    At the front of the house, the doorbell buzzed.
    The noise startled her. She took a steadying breath, then left the study and made her way through the house to the front door. She opened it, and Maura was there.
    “Oh,” Jennifer said. “What are you doing here?”
    “And hello to you, too. I was coming by to check on you. And it looks like it was a good idea. You seem pretty frazzled. But at least you’re alive. You could have called to let me know.”
    “Sorry.” Jennifer ran a distracted hand through her hair. “It’s been a hectic day.”
    “Tell me about it. I’m showing a two-bedroom condo the size of a file cabinet to a lovely young couple who’ll soon be in debt up to their earlobes, when all of a sudden the place starts boogying. The lady had a freakout, and the last I saw of her, she was insisting they move to Seattle.”
    “Seattle has earthquakes, too.”
    “I mentioned that, but she wasn’t in a mood to be reasonable.”
    Maura Lowell, thirty-seven, was a real estate agent who worked Venice and Ocean Park. She’d met Jennifer through Richard, back when Richard was looking for a condo of his own. She and Richard dated for a while, one of the many times when Richard went out with a woman older than himself.
    “And of course,” Maura added, “right